Reminisce
by soap and sanitizer
Summary: Sometimes getting lost in the past isn't a bad thing. •••FFCC:TCB PREQUEL FIC. No pairings defined yet. Layle centric. scrapped.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Spoilers for FFCC:TCB. Jussayin. Read at your own caution. This is a prologue to the fic, which is a prequel to FFCC:TCB. The prologue takes place directly after the ending of Crystal Bearers, but the fic as an entirety will take place pre-game._

_Also, I do not own Layle, Belle, etc., etc._

* * *

P R O L O G U E: RESTLESS NIGHT

Layle shifts slightly in his bunk. He's restless this night. Not that there's anything special about this night; it's just one of the many he's spent alone on the cruise liner since his fight with Jegran. He turns onto his back, swinging his sight through the tiny, circular window and allowing his mind to briefly wonder about the whole spiel. He can practically feel the tight grip around his throat, the hands wringing the air out of his lungs. Layle scratches the tiny crystallization on his face out of nervous habit and forces his concentration of thoughts back to the churning ocean just barely in his view.

The waves lick and lap at the bottom of the window, spraying and splattering across its clear surface. Through each of those droplets he can see a reflection of the pitch black sky and the constellations spindled into it. It would've been quite the display if he hadn't already seen it perfectly cut and pasted in the same manner for the past eight nights.

The blond sighs and pushes himself up into a sitting position, shaking his head softly. He casts a glance over to his jacket and goggles which are muddled up in the farthest corner of the cold cabin, then back to the window, absent mindedly fiddling with the ring on his middle finger all the meanwhile.

He'd somehow convinced himself being away from all human contact wouldn't be so bad; that it would allow the blond to sort out his thoughts, figure out where to go from here, et cetera. However, it turned out there were a few problems with his theory.

It turned out most of the thoughts that needed to be sorted out were, in layman's terms, unsortable. Or at least, to someone like Layle, who rarely ever takes the time to think about himself, it seems that way.

Secondly, he isn't really sure where 'here' is. Sure, he's in the middle of the ocean on a high class leisure ship, but where is he in relation to, well, life?

The death of that Yuke, Amedatelion, seems to have affected him tenfold more than he could have ever braced himself for. Now that he thinks about it isn't she—he—whatever, isn't Golden Rod the reason he decided to leave? Even after all that big talk with Althea_,_ telling her that the world changing would be _interesting _of all things, even after acting so sure of the fact, Layle finds himself running away from the world he, quite potentially, changed.

A bittersweet chuckle falls onto the floor of the cabin as Layle stands himself onto the creaky wood paneling. For a brief moment he considers shrugging on his jacket, but decides only half a moment later that he can't really be bothered. He stretches out his arms and shakes out his legs, his worn down jeans brushing comfortably against the surface of his skin.

The blond checks his pockets momentarily to assure he's in possession of the room key before shutting the cabin door behind him and surveying the area for the stairway up to the deck.

* * *

For a high quality ship, the vessel seems to groan and creak a whole lot as the ocean pushes and pulls it. Layle leans over the railing of the ship and stares blankly at the scenery rolling by. He stays this way for a good ten minutes, his mind just about as empty as the expression on his face. The blond likes the way the huge wailing ocean seems to sweep away all his thoughts, turning them into unrecognizable murmurs in his mind.

He's intending to stay that way until the sun rises, and maybe even a little longer after that, but it doesn't seem like the crystal principle wills it to be that way. He doesn't bother to turn as a someone sighs and sits down on the bench behind him.

Layle stays quiet. "Are you here for the fishing," asks the voice of a man. What sort of a question is that? The blond shakes his head. "Are you here for the women?"

Another shake of the head, accompanied with a small snort of amusement.

And for the next few moments, all the blond hears is the wishing and washing of the waves before the voice comes again. "Why are you here, then," he asks.

"I can't seem to figure that out myself," Layle muses after a short while. An aged laugh rises from behind him and trickles into his ears.

"Are you lost?"

Layle finally turns himself around to look at an old Clavat man whose face holds a curt smile. "I guess so," he says.

The man hums and looks at Layle with scrutinizing eyes. "Maybe you should retrace your steps," he suggests.

"I didn't say I lost anything in particular…"

"But haven't you lost your place?"

"Well, I—"

"Just like a material object, anything you lose is in the last place you found it."

"I don't think that's quite the same."

"Don't knock it till you try it."

Layle nods and agrees, though reluctantly, and takes a seat on the bench as well. He half expects the man to leave, but he does no such thing. The gray haired fellow remains right in his spot, staring almost expectantly at the younger.

"Were you wondering about this?" The blond motions to the crystal on his cheek.

"No, I'm wondering why you haven't started remembering yet," the older Clavat chuckles. "I've seen a fair amount of you in my day." He taps his feet on the deck of the boat, and by 'you,' Layle can tell he means crystal bearers. "You're nothing special."

Layle blinks a few times at this. Sure, he's always preached that sort of thing, but have it said directly to himself—it's a little surprising. Regardless, he sinks back into the wooden seat and begins to think.

The minutes tick by slowly, especially considering he doesn't have a watch, and the sound of the boats engine isn't a very good way to tell time.

"Where am I supposed to start?" He asks, looking over at the hunched form beside him.

"The beginning, obviously."

"Well, I mean—"

"The beginning."

Layle shakes his head and sighs. "Alright, then," he mutters to himself. "The beginning it is, then…"

* * *

_A/N: Reviews give me motivation. Probably. CRITISIZE ME. Also, I'm not entirely sure where I want to go as far as pairings in this fic, there may be mild Layle/Keiss, and maybe a cameo of Belle, but since it's clearly defined that Layle and Belle don't officially meet untill the game, there's no possible way they could have a stable relationship in this fic. The same goes for Althea. Layle/Amedatelion? I don't know. Tell me what you want; I promise no OCs._


	2. Secret

_A/N: Oh god, I actually got reviews. I think I'm gonna piss myself. Good to hear some of you are interested in the idea of Layle/Amedatelion! I'll try and see what I can do with that._

_Uh, there's mild gore in this chapter, which is why I changed the rating to T. If any of you who read this think it might need to be changed to M, please do tell. _

_I do not own Layle, Belle, etc., etc. Well, uh. H-here's the first chapter.f_

* * *

C H A P T E R 1: SECRET

Several shreds of leaf flitter onto the tilled land as a turnip is pulled up from the soft earth.

"There," says a gruffly gentle voice. "Can you do it like that?" A small Clavat child nods slowly. He begins to make both his hands into fists.

"No, Layle—"

Suddenly dirt, in chunks and grains, covers the boy's torso, face, and legs. The man beside him sighs and combs his fingers through the boy's curly locks, attempting to get rid of the bits and pieces of earth.

"I meant with your hands," he says with a smile. However, that smile is returned promptly with a frown from the six year old Layle.

"But doing it that way is _funner,_" he whines. "And besides, I got it out of the ground quicker that way, too…" he picks up the vegetable and shows it to his father before continuing to talk in the same fashion. The other puts a finger to Layle's tiny mouth. Immediately the curly haired boy hushes himself into a pout.

"It's against the rules to do it that way, Layle."

"…_I hate the rules._"

Layle earns a chuckle with that remark. "You know who else hates the rules?" The man picks up his child and swings him up into a piggy back ride.

"No, who?" asks the tiny boy with a smile, adjusting the medical patch on his left cheek as he rests his arms in his father's blonde nest of hair.

Layle's dad reaches down to pick up the day's harvest in his arms and asks aloud with a gentle kidding in his voice, "Can you keep a secret?" The man feels his child nod vigorously. "_Me."_

"You?" inquires the boy in an awed tone.

"That's right," he says as he begins to walk the two of them towards their home and away from their crop fields. "But remember! It's a secret."

"Mhm, mhm!" Layle nods over and over and giggles slightly. "Se-ecret!" He pushes a finger to his own lips and makes a loud shushing noise.

* * *

They reach the door and his father squats down so the child can crawl off and open the door to their tiny home. Once inside, Layle eagerly rips off the white patch on his face, sighing in relief. "Mo-om?" He runs into the kitchen and climbs onto a creaky wooden chair.

His father looks up the stairs to see if his wife is up there; none too surprisingly, she is. She clutches her skirt and trots down the stairs hastily.

"Hey, beautiful," he says in a light joking tone, wiggling his eyebrows. She laughs and shoves his playfully.

"Where's my _real _man?" she asks, before spotting Layle sitting at their fining table, swinging his legs back and forth expectantly. Making her way over to his, she places a kiss on his forehead and either of his cheeks. "Did you work hard today?"

Layle nods happily.

"Did you wear your patch?"

Layle nods again, this time not so happily. After a moment of silence, he asks this: "Why do I have to wear it...?"

His mother lets out a faux gasp. "Don't you remember what I told you?" Layle shakes his head and his blond curls sift around his chubby face. She talks in shocked tones, patting him on the cheek. "Because _heroes _wear patches!"

From behind the two of them, his father laughs heartily. He slinks up towards both of them, placing the basket filled with today's crop on the table. "That's right, boy, 'heroes.'"

Layle hums disbelievingly, but mutters an alright, regardless.

The Clavat woman beside him smiles. "Don't be such a grump, honey," she says, dusting off the boy's two-sizes-too-big shirt. "I know you'll grow up to be the greatest hero in the world." Lifting up her skirt again, she picks out a turnip from the basket. "You'll save the world from _all _the bad guys," she makes supposed 'monster' gestures with her free hand.

"It'll be the greatest gig in the universe," interjects his father as he takes a seat at one of the two free chairs.

Even with all of their persuading words, Layle doesn't seem convinced.

* * *

Later that night, rest is escaping poor six-year-old Layle's brain. It seems the turnips didn't go through his system too well—technically speaking, the turnips haven't even gone through it completely, though he sincerely wishes they would. _(A/N: For those of you who don't get it: He can't poop.)_

He sits in the outhouse for twenty minutes (though it feels like an eternity) before the door is suddenly swung open.

Layle shouts.

The other person shouts.

They both shout, and the door is slammed shut.

Then there's silence. Layle hears a cough from outside the door.

"Dad?" he ventures in question, pulling up his pants before peeking out the door. His dad's face is red in surprise and who knows what else as he speaks.

"…did you wipe?"

"Uh-huh."

More silence.

"Go wash your hands, Layle."

Layle nods and runs to the water pump laying several yards away. After he's done cleaning up, he trots back to where his father's at.

"Don't you need to go?" He asks.

"Go wh—" Bathroom. Right. "No, I don't need to go anymore."

"You sure?" His father nods quickly in return. Layle responds with an 'okay' before another silence fills in the conversation.

"You couldn't sleep either?" His dad finally chimes in, looking down at his son. Layle promptly shakes his head in confirmation. At this, the Clavat man smiles. "I guess we're in the same boat, then." He pats his kid on the back, gently coaxing him towards the house. "C'mon. Let's go inside."

The wood floor seemed to whine in an obscenely loud manner as they attempted to sneak into their own home without being detected. Layle starts to make his way towards the kitchen table and sits down in the same manner he had earlier that afternoon. His father takes the seat across from him and they look at each other for a long while before Layle starts to speak. "Do heroes re—" His father cuts him off with a shush, and Layle continues with a lowered tone. "Do heroes really wear patches on their cheeks?"

His father blinks at this, but answers with a clear no. The young Clavat frowns at this. "Then why do I have to—"

"Heroes have special marks on them," says his father, pointing lightly at the crystal on his son's cheek.

Layle hums. "So I'm already a hero?" He touches the crystallization on his cheek, for once not scratching it as if it were some kind of scab. "Just with this?"

"Not quite."

"But you said—"

"And now I'm saying not quite."

He huffs at that. "I don't get it."

Unfortunately for Layle, not even ten years later would he 'get it.'

* * *

Conversations like the prior soon became a nightly ritual of sorts for the two.

Minus the bathroom troubles of course.

* * *

On a night just like the first (though it's been months since the first, Layle's already seven by now), Layle creeps out of his room, past his parents' room, and into the kitchen. His father's already there, as usual. "Say, Layle," his dad begins. "Can you still keep a secret?"  
Layle nods. "I'm worried about your mom."  
The child raises an eyebrow at this. "Why?"

His father smiles. "That part of the secret is _extra _secret; I can't tell you."

There's a silence after this, and after a while, Layle begins to shift about in his chair, causing the grains of the floor to groan in protest. Father scratches his chin. "I know you probably won't understand this—"  
"What's un-deer-stand mean?" inquires the boy as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

The Clavat man chuckles. "Let me start over—"

"Okay," replies the child, still not entirely capable of comprehending certain phrases of speech. The middle aged Clavat puts a hand over his face and lets out a muffled laugh before continuing.

"Just—Take care of your mother, alright?"

Layle nods. "Alright," he says with a smile. "Leave it to me."

The rest of the conversation that night is light and normal.

* * *

The conversation Layle hears that morning is far from light and normal.

It's a conversation between his mother and herself. She sounds panicked; panicked to the point that Layle's young and sleep deprived mind can't make out exactly what she's saying. Whatever she's shouting about seems important, though, so Layle decides to force his body out from underneath the thin covers of his bed, down the stairs, and out back to where the wash tub is.

Her hands are all mussed up in her straight, golden hair. The bun it's usually tied up in is disheveled and slowly coming undone as she claws at her own head; she's clearly stressed over whatever's in the tub.

Layle slinks up behind her and leans over the tub to see what it is. He figures it must be an animal or something from first glance—maybe some kind of coyote. However, upon closer examination, he realizes it's not like any kind of coyote he's ever seen.

First of all, it's hairless, save for its head; not only that, but the little hair it does have yellow. In addition, the shape of its face is nothing like a coyote—or any type of wolf, as a matter of fact. Its face looks more like a human's face. Now that the young blond thinks about it, it looks like the face of a very familiar human. Layle blinks and looks down at its body. No breasts. It's a male. The throat of it is trailed with blood and the water in the tub has been saturated with the red substance as well.

"Get away from there!"

Before he can make any further judgments on the body, he's yanked away from the tub, and his mother yells at him some. He can't quite make out what she's saying, though. It seems like she had been yelling at him to get away quite a while before, especially considering how red her face is.

It looks almost red to the point that it would match the blood on that man's body. The man seemed awfully familiar—

"—see, Layle? How much? Your father's fi—"

Father. Where was his—

"Is that dad?" Layle hears his voice come out, small and meager.

Suddenly his mother goes quiet. "Honey, you should go back inside."

He shakes his head at that. "Dad told me to take care of you."

"Layle, just go insi—"

* * *

"I don't want to remember anymore," a full grown Layle says to the elderly man beside him. The man looks over at Layle only to see that the younger's eyes are shut, almost as if he were sleeping.

"You don't have to do it all at once."

The ocean waves crash and churn as they continue to talk.

"That's good."

Layle hears the bench croak as the other Clavat stands and begins to leave; the sun is already beginning to rise on his ninth day aboard the massive sea ship.

"I don't think I'm ready to retrace all my steps."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, I really don't know what to say about this chapter. I feel like it went by too quickly, but hey, I've got lots of plot to go through…so uh yeah. I'm also bad at ending chapters lol. Critique is welcome, as always. Suggestions to the plot are good, too, I've really only got a vague outline of what to do thus far._

_Also, thanks to all who have already reviewed! It's nice to know someone else is actually interested in a fic like this._


	3. Blaze

_A/N: Sooo thanks to your guys' reviews, I went and changed Layle's age in the fic, and also fixed a typo. And then I added another one. OTL I was really so lost where to go for this chapter…I knew what was going to happen, I just wasn't sure how I was going to put it into words, hence the whole not updating for several weeks. (Surprisingly enough, I was not scared away from you pointing out my errors.)_

_On another note, I finally got the download for the FFCCTCB OST!_

_Thanks for your reviews, guys! You really don't know how much they help me improve. (Or do you?)_

_I do not own Layle, Belle, etc., etc._

_

* * *

_

C H A P T E R 2: BLAZE

It's been a couple days since Layle's father committed suicide. Layle himself hasn't quite grasped the concept of what happened, though he's sure his father isn't going to come barging through the door any time soon, especially considering the Altifaria guard carried the body away only a few hours after Layle and his mother had discovered it.

Speaking of the door, there's been lots of knocks at it over the past few days. It's mainly been the locals dropping by the give their condolences. Layle's mother isn't the one to answer them, though. She's locked herself up in the bedroom for the past few days, and Layle is starting to get worried about whether or not she's alright. Surely she's been out to do, well, things, right? Of course, of course. Just because he hasn't seen her doesn't mean a thing.

Layle supposes he can't really complain (not that he has been) considering he hasn't really _tried _to draw her out of there. Thinking about it now, he wonders if there's anything in his power he _could _do. Sure, he could always just…open the door. Though it's locked, Layle's pretty confident in the fact that he could get it open if he did that thing.

He would, but he didn't think using it would really put his mother in a better mood if he attempted to reach out in such a manner. It just seemed 'that thing' was such an easy way out of troubling tasks.

He wasn't even entirely sure what to refer to it as at this point. Both his parents really didn't like talking about 'it.' He guessed they were powers, but really, the way his mother looked at him whenever he used them—it felt as if he had some sort of growth spurting from his hand. Really, he didn't see what was so bad about it. If his parents—er, parent, would just get over whatever fear it was, life would be so much easier. The crop would surely multiply; their family would probably be safer too, and really—

Layle's train of thought is pulled off its track as a knock comes at the door. It only now occurs to him that he's been standing in front of his mother's bedroom for that past twenty minutes. He shakes his head and makes his way downstairs.

Opening the door, Layle's greeted with a face he's begun to categorize as 'familiar.' It's a woman with dark honey hair and a strong, pronounced nose. She's shaped like a tree, really; slender in the middle, a big top of curly hair, and wide lower body. She squats down and inspects Layle's face.

"Hi, sweetie," she speaks with a slight impediment; she is, to Layle, the epitome of what a Clavat woman ought to be. Her voice is sweet and nurturing and she has kind eyes. "Aren't you cold in this creaky old house?"

Layle can't say he quite understands her meaning; the first signs of fall are only starting to set in, and it had only sprinkled just yesterday. He replies with a polite 'no,' and peers over her shoulder to see if there's any reason for her to be asking. It looks a bit windy out, if anything. The sky is overcast with clouds that have been loitering for what seems to have been forever by now. What sorts of clouds are pathetic to the point that they don't look pretty _or _make rain?

"Is your mother home?" Layle looks up. He's been looking at the floor for quite some time, he realizes. He nods embarrassedly and she stands up and invites herself in; Layle can see that she's carrying a basket, presumably filled with…lady things, he guesses.

She stops, however, midway to the staircase and calls outside the door for her son. This woman—Layle can hardly believe he hasn't asked her name—has been visiting his mother since the day of the incident. He thinks he ought to be thanking her for doing whatever it is she's been doing for his mother, but he hasn't really felt talkative lately.

Only a few minutes and several shouts from his mother later, another Clavat boy trots into the house for the third time this week; he looks maybe ten years older than Layle.

"Hi, Blaze."

The teen blinks and grins. "You remembered my name this time!"

Of course he remembered it _this _time. Is he honestly expected to remember names after only two me—

A hand comes down onto Layle's head and ruffles his hair. "Don't look so grumpy," he says in his nasally, yet up-beat voice. "It was only a joke."

Layle smiles at this. Though he hasn't known Blaze for too long, he's rather taken a liking to the guy. He's nice enough and funny (when Layle gets the jokes, of course). "You sure are serious for a—how old are you again? Five?"

"Six," Layle corrects, looking up at his funny looking face. His features are, well, strong, to say the least. It seems like every single part of his face wants to poke out at Layle—especially his nose. Layle doesn't mind, though. Blaze's eyes really make up for it. They're soft—like his mother's. Not only that, but no matter how funny looking his face may be, he always has a grin on, and Layle has to admit he likes that. It's nice to see. Just as Layle starts to look at it, though, Blaze's grin falters.

His fingers tap on a part of Layle's right cheek. "You were wearing that last time, too. Wonder what you're hiding underneath that thing...?" He starts to peel off the adhesive from the bandage. "A battle wound?" he muses.

The six year old makes a confused face before he realizes what the frizzy haired Clavat is talking about—the medical patch that's used to cover up the crystal on his cheek. He flinches away as if Blaze's hand is a knife and mumbles a little something—though, he's not entirely sure what that something was. Blaze doesn't pursue it any further, (though he looks at the kid with a peculiar glance) and wanders over to the kitchen table before seating himself.

Moments pass by, and Layle's still standing at the doorframe. Blaze raises an eyebrow at him. "Hey, Layle," he says. "How long are you planning on standing there like some kinda zombie?"

After that comment, the six year old hastily shuts the door leading to the outside world and scurries to the chair opposite Blaze. The silence continues again after Layle stops squirming about in his chair. It seems like the table top is really very interesting to him.

"Don't you think it's weird?" Asks Blaze.

What? The table top? Layle scrutinizes it even more, leaning in closer to examine the wood grain. Layle feels an almost painful thump on his head. "I meant about outside." At this, the small blond looks over to the window. The sky's the same as when he last checked—dreary and boring.

"…I don't see anything weird," he says finally.

Blaze seems to snap at this. "Exactly! There _nothing weird _outside!"

Layle looks at him with that 'I'm a six year old and I don't understand' look, and Blaze takes this as a sign to elaborate.

"Haven't you noticed there aren't a lot of miasma streams popping up lately?"

That same look continues to radiate from Layle's face.

"You know! The things that make monsters?"

It takes another couple minutes for this to register in the younger Clavat's brain. After those couple minutes, an 'oooh' of realization escapes his mouth. Now that he thinks about it, he figures it must be weeks now that not a single monster has raided their crop fields.

"So that's good, right?"

"Yeah, but it's _weird…_It's like—" Blaze stops here, seemingly unsure of what to say next. He slaps his hand on the table after a short moment. "Like someone's gone and killed them all."

Layle can feel his face contorting at the word kill. "Why would somebody do that?"

The other blond takes a moment to consider this. "Maybe they were offered money."

"Do people really do that kind of thing?"

"What, kill things for money? Of course they do!" Blaze leans back in his chair and sighs contentedly. "That would be the life."

Layle's silence seems to urge him on, even here. "Taking down miasma streams for money—I'd be a hero _and _I'd be rich! Could you imagine how much people would pay for that?"

Even more silence—but that doesn't seem to bother Blaze at all; he continues as if Layle had replied.

"Yeah, it's too bad, though…" There's another sigh, this one out of sympathy for himself. "I can't do that since I'm just a normal person; I wonder if I'd be able to find a bearer to work with me," he says, more to himself than Layle. This is probably the reason he looks surprised when the other speaks up.

"What's a bearer?"

"Crystal bearer."

"…what's a crystal bearer?"

"Just these freaks of nature…I haven't ever met one; for all I know, they could be a myth."

"What's a my—"

"Don't talk while I'm talking."

"But you wer—" Blaze's glare stops him there.

"Now, listen to this," Blaze's voice suddenly fills with excitement—Layle can tell he's hyped up this type of thing before. "From what I hear, these 'bearer' guys—uh, crystal bearers, that is—have part of their body…" He pauses for what seems like dramatic effect, and leans over the table to invade Layle's personal space.

"Turned to crystal!" He adds in a quivering 'oooh' immediately afterwards and wiggles his hands and fingers all around, mimicking what would seem to be a ghost.

Layle doesn't seem to give him quite the reaction he wants, so he slouches back down in his chair. "You're really a downer, you know that?"

* * *

_A/N: There was more that was meant to happen in this chapter but I think this is fine—I'll let the drama ensue later. Now I know what you're probably thinking—Blaze is out of character, right? Well, keep in mind that this is before his eye got turned to crystal, so I assume he'd be much friendlier._

**WindGoddess Rune:**_ I'll probably only update when I get inspiration, soo…_

**Thy True Self:** _Why yes, that _is _the origin of Layle's tagline you see there._

**NotMeagain: **_I will try to keep that in mind with the author's notes, thanks. Back in the day when I used to read OC and script fics, A/N would show up all the time in the actual chapter itself, but now that I know it's not alright, I'll stray from doing so._


	4. Crystal Bearer

C H A P T E R 3: CRYSTAL BEARER

That night, Layle seats himself out in the vegetable garden, and stares down at the withered leaves of the turnips and carrots. Blaze and his mother had left long ago, and there is still neither hind nor hair of his own mother—not that he's surprised. He hears a cow groan at the next door ranch, apparently just as restless as he was.

The blond picked and nipped at the nearest plant life with his squared fingers, pressing the yellow foliage between his forefinger and thumb. "A crystal bearer, huh?" He asks, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee, as if making conversation with the crop. He makes a small hum of thought, slipping his other hand from the plant and placing it on his cheek. Layle frowns as his fingertips graze the cotton and smooth bandage over his face. He feels heat begin to bubble in his chest as he grips the thing and balls it up into his palm.

He brings it down into his lap and stares at it. Sliding his hand from his knee, Layle presses the pad of his finger into the cotton.

It's moist with his sweat.

He's been wearing this thing all day, and for the majority of his life. He sighs, knowing that his parents only mean and meant well; after all, it seemed like blaze was too fond of these 'crystal bearers.'

And, according to the guy's very vague description, Layle is one—a crystal bearer, that is. A part of his body is turned to crystal. He's not normal—no, he's far from it. He's not a hero, either, though. He's a crystal bearer—a freak of nature, according to Blaze and his stupid curly hair.

At this, Layle feels his fingertips convulse as he roughly tosses the damn bandage as far as he can. It flies several yards away, and so does the soft soil around him, along with the vegetables he's managed to uproot in his small fit. This only darkens his mood further, and Layle stands in a huff, the unsettled soil tugging up slightly with his movements. He balls his hands up into fists and brings them into view. There's a trembling blue glow about them, and the blond feels like he's never seen anything quite so repulsive in his life.

He pivots on his heel and throws his arms free in frustration, eyes burning as he stomps back into his home, hoping to sleep.

He wakes up to a thudding sound at the door. "Let me in!" He heard from the other side of the timber. The voice was filled with panic and cracked and dipped oddly. Layle stumbled out of his bed and down the stairs, fumbling with the turn thumb lock of his front door. As soon as he manages to undo it, the door swings open and slams shut, and suddenly Blaze is in his house, breathing heavy and looking flustered.

All Layle can do is stare at him with his six years of life and two hours of sleep.

"Blaze," he began, yawning. "Why are you here?"

Blaze stares at him like he's crazy. "Whaddya mean _why?_" He hoists Layle up by him armpits and plants him in front of the nearest window; the younger of the two doesn't fight back or ask questions, too tired to go through such complex processes. As he's set down on the floor, his eyes willingly gaze through the glass. Outside, the world glows purple and magenta—the two blondes can hear the sound of killer hounds and the knocks and bumps of animated bones.

"I guess they're back," Blaze says, sounding a little excited, despite himself. Layle concurs with a nod and a mumble, scratching his cheek with his finger nails. Behind him, Blaze hums a tune and continues to stare out at the scenery.

"Where's your mom?"

"Nnn?" Blaze makes a questioning noise and glances down at the boy. "At home, duh." He lightly pats Layle on the back, and the blond turns to face him.

"Why didn't you just stay home?"

Blaze crouches down on his haunches. "Mom sent me over here to see how her 'nephew' was doing," he rolls his dull blue eyes and pinches the child's cheek. His all of a sudden eyebrows raise in surprise and Layle feels his touch become timid. "What the…?" The teen leans in, pushing the stray strands of hair from Layle's face to get a better view.

"You're a…"

At that instance, Layle gasps, backing up from Blaze and covering up the side of his face.

"You—"

"Please, please, _please _don't tell my mom!" Layle shakes his head and looks pleadingly at the other, both of his hands still clutching at his cheek as if it was gushing blood.

The next morning, Layle wakes up feeling hung over. Above him, the boat deck is noisy—it seems like the crew is preparing to port somewhere. He habitually fingers the crystal on his cheek as he looks left and right, not feeling entirely up to, well, waking up. With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the cot, listening to the floorboards creak as his bare feet touch down on the floor.

He stretches and flexes his fingers to bring his shoes and coat nearer. His shoes slide over first, their metals heels tapping lightly against each other. The blond rubs the five o' clock shadow on his face and picks up the left shoe, bringing it to his eye. He makes no noise as he pulls the socks from the toe of the shoe, tugging one on his left foot, and one on his right.

Slipping his toes part way into the footwear, Layle tries to recall exactly what it was he's been dreaming about last night.

Thinking about it, he supposes it had really been more of a memory than a dream. Dreams were meant to be surreal, breath taking, and just plain illogical. No, what he had experienced last night—it made plenty of sense.

Blaze—where was that guy? Layle hadn't caught sight of him since the incident at the Rivelgauge Monastery.

_Probably dead,_ he jokes half heartedly with himself. Layle opens his eyes to realize that he'd been keeping them closed as he dressed himself. Standing, he shifts his weight around to feel to soles of his shoes, and pats down the front of his jacket and chest plate. Upon exiting the room, he notes dully that it was very, very crowded down here in the cabin.

The idea of simply tossing each every passenger into one another flutters in his mind as he successfully manages to worm his way into the current of bustling people. Amidst all the chaos, Layle singles out a single, petit Lilty woman, who seems to be struggling. She's carrying a large suitcase, one that seems out of proportion to her small frame.

He lightly tugs her into the cabin hall and out from the doorframe of her room. She looks around, confused as to what had just happened, but as she's ushered forward, seems forced to lose the thought.

Good deed for the day: check.

As he emerges from the stairwell, accompanied by a handful of other passengers, Layle takes in the burningly bright sky. He hears the shipmates shout this and that at each other, one of them (a white haired Selkie, the blond notes) pointing at their supposed destination. The heels of his shoes clack on the deck, and he peers off to the horizon, where a string of islands lay. Costa Figuata.


	5. Reunion

A/N: I think I might have spelt figuata wrong in a chapter or two prior to this? My apologies, I'll try to fix it up—but in the meanwhile, here's another chapter.

C H A P T E R 4: **REUNION**

Blaze just keeps staring and staring and staring. "You're a crystal bearer," he breathes, eyes wide as the moon.

"Please, don't tell mom," the six year old begs again, still cradling his left cheek and frowning deeply.

"Tell your mom _what?" _Blaze knits his eyebrows together. "You can't be telling me she doesn't know you're a crystal bearer—I mean, you're her _son _and stuff." He waves his hands in a dismissive manner before returning to talking about what seems to _really _interest him. Layle makes to clear up his point, but Blaze promptly begins to pry at the child's fingers, which seems to have merged to his face.

All the child does is shake his head vigorously, stepping back. "Don't look," he says despairingly. "Nobody's supposed to know except my mom and me."

Blaze rolls his eyes and snorts before just yanking Layle hand from his face and holding it steady while he examines the tiny crystal on his face. Layle's fingers are squirming in his palm, but it's really no matter, considering the fact that Blaze is roughly twice his size. The big-nosed teen whistles and taps Layle's cheek with a grin. "Hey, hey, why don't you go give me a show?"

Layle's finally allowed to pull away at this point, and his hands get half way to back to his face before he realizes everyone who _can _see _has _seen. He sniffles lightly. "I don't have a TV, Blaze." Blaze snorts again, and bumps the smaller of the two on the back of the head.

"I meant out there," he exclaims, gesturing out to the fields. "You've got bearer powers, so that means you can go close that thing!"

"Blaze, I don't really want to…"

"Aw, c'mon, you'll be a _hero_, Layle!" The younger blond looks a bit more willing at that, so Blaze naturally decides to milk it. "I bet my mom will be really impressed," he urges with excited eyes. "And maybe your mom will even come out of her room!"

Layle looks to be mulling it over for a while after that, shifting his weight from one heel to the other, his mouth contorted. "Well, I guess I could try—"

"Great!" Blaze picks him up by the armpits again, and urges him towards the door that he'd come knocking at just minutes ago. "Go get 'em, tiger!"

Layle hastily puts on his shoes, half of him still says this is a brash and generally bad idea, but Blaze looks so absolutely _exuberant _he can't turn back now. He undoes the lock again, and opens the door just a crack, peering outside. There's a dark furred wolf nipping at the carrots he'd uprooted earlier, and it seems pretty harmless—but then a skull flies by and it jumps after it barking and yipping. Three other dogs follow after it, and then a whole skeleton (a headless one, he might add) lumbers behind flailing its limbs around in panic.

"I could watch this all day," he murmurs with an amused smile. Blaze, who'd been forgotten up till this point, did not seem quite as amused as Layle was though, because just as soon as a the words fall out of the young boy's mouth, Layle finds himself being shoved outside, the door locked behind him. "W-wait, Blaze—"

He doesn't bother to continue. The monsters seem to not taken notice of his presence at all, as they continue their antics. Oh, but they're trampling all over the crops—he takes a deep breath and attempts to mentally build himself up. He isn't even entirely sure how to activate his powers yet, but he supposes practice makes perfect, no matter the environment.

He _really _doesn't want to fight, though. It's only Clavat nature, though, right? He's been told many a time by travelling Lilties or Selkies that the Clavat were generally a very peaceful race-they'd also mentioned that was the reason his tribe was poor, but that was a detail to be saved for later, because right now, he was being _attacked. _

There were hounds barreling at him at such speed that he could see the wind around them whirling. They barked and snarled, and he found himself shrieking as they snapped their jaws at him, genuinely intending to _eat his flesh. _He gets pretty roughed up before the skull goes flying past as it did when he was watching from afar, and the hounds go after it, panting happily.

He stays on his back—or at least, he would have, if one of the dogs hadn't tried to _pee _on him. After that horrid experience, he jumped back up, and pounded at the door to his tiny home—Blaze didn't open the door, only told him to close the miasma stream. Layle is far past not trying to cry at that point. His eyes sting, and he can taste the salt from either his tears or the mucus that dripping from his nose.

He balls his fists and pounds at the door again, and this time, the door wobbles. He can hear Blaze shout in surprise on the other side. "Why don't you do that to the _monsters!" _Layle wipes his nose and kicks the door firmly, feeling an odd sort of fulfillment as it shakes again, and hearing Blaze utter another cry of dismay.

He turns around, feeling the tiniest fraction better, hands glowing. Those dogs wanted bones. If they had bones, then they would be happy—or at the very least, distracted. He breathes heavily and scans the area for the skeleton—it doesn't take too long to spot it. It running this way, and with its skull—the dust covered prize.

Letting out a cough and trying to smear the tears off his face, he watches intently as the skeleton draws nearer—Layle focuses as best as he can on its head, and holds out his hand. It takes a while, but he manages to grasp it without actually getting anywhere near the giant walking heap of bones. He does a cheer and flings his hands up—and then the skull dislodges itself from the skeleton, flinging its way into Layle's hands.

The blond recoils and nearly drops it. He grips it and examines it—it seems to be shaking slightly (with fear?), he looks up, only to see the dogs running towards him, tongues dangling out of their mouths. Layle gasps and hugs the skull close to his body, bracing himself and cowering. He hears whimpering, and thinks it to be himself, but when he opens his eyes, what he sees is four wolves on their back paws, their mouths overflowing with drool.

_That's right_, he thinks, looking at the skull, with its wide gaping holes for eyes and its two hulking ox horns. "You want this," Layle says, bright eyed and breathless. He holds it up as high as he can, and the dogs start to yip and jump. Laughing, he waves the thing this way and that, ignoring the pain from the scratches, scrapes and bites on his body.

"Well, if you want it, then," he pauses, examining each of them. They all look equally hungry and desperate, he notes, still laughing. "You can have it!" He focuses as best as he can once again, concentrating until the dull blue glow begins to show again. Layle heaves as if it's a boulder as he moves the skull to one hand, and proceeds to throw it at the middle dog with all the strength his six year old body can muster.

The dog falls back on its back, whining, and the others crowd around it snapping at it. Layle watches, a feeling of victory in his stomach. He doesn't get to enjoy it for very long, though, but suddenly the hounds become silent. They pull back from the skull and the one wolf that had been in the center (who is now dead, the flesh torn from its bones and bleeding maroon beads all over the soil). They all look upward at the sky, and so does Layle, watching as the black and purple clouds begin to envelop themselves, rumbling and groaning.

He feels as if everything is still, and there is not a noise in the world at this point—not even the shaking of the animated bones, or the howling of the wind: only silence is left. Layle counts one two three, before the sky erupts into a bright and blinding cyan blue, and sound begins to trickle into his ears again: the sound of birds calling, of cows yawning, the sound of the door of his house creaking open, and the sound of Blaze calling his name, sounding rather cheery and accomplished.

* * *

The ship departs from Costa Figuata roughly an hour after all of its patrons are dropped off at the shore. It's midday, and Layle feels as if he's going to melt, even in his T-shirt and shorts. His ears are popped—he's unaware of how long they've been like that—and everything sounds muted, even the calls of the gulls.

Layle doesn't feel like doing anything at this point. He doesn't even feel like sitting in this damn woven chair, that been blasted on with heat and sandy winds. The 21 year old groans, shakes his head, and slowly stands, patting his back as if he were an old man. His sandals slide and scrape against the worn wood as he walks to the arc of the pavilion.

The sun is blazing and burning today, for whatever reason, and Layle just can't bear it—wiping his brow, he marches towards the cavern (outside of which, that same man is kicking that same turtle for whatever reason), over the logs that pointlessly tried to black to path, and into the dark depths. Though it's ten times more humid in here, Layle can really complain, because as he walks deeper in, the temperature cools. Before long, he can hear the crashing sounds of Hush-Hush pond, and the cries of the usual moogle, who has lost his usual key.

He sighs and seats himself onto the white sand, nearby the shore, but far from the couple who were nuzzling each other endearingly. He's always liked this place. Always so calm, and always filled with the same people, the same things—hell, even the same issue of the UMA news, which had been discontinued, still filled the tiny news rack beside the directional sign.

So, naturally, Layle is surprised when something, or rather _someone _runs through the area, panting. It's Belle. Just as she nears the pitch black cavern that leads to Costa Figuata, she turns around and shouts behind her in that same semi-nasally voice that he remembers. "Someone said they _saw _him, Keiss! A hat, Keiss! A man used _powers _to give a girl back her _hat!"_

Layle can hear the smacking of wet sandals on the rock down the other cave. The couple who were once cuddling are now murmuring to each other in hushed tones, and the girl points at Belle, a questioning look on her face.

A familiar voice echoes out from the cavern, "Belle, you have to realize that he might be—" Keiss, with his navy blue bandana trots out, stopping and resting against the opening of the cave, his breathing hard and heavy. "He might be—" Layle's long time comrade looks about the tiny area, and his eyes land on the blond. The Selkie gapes, unable to continue his sentence.

"He might be _what," _Belle demands, still unaware of the Clavat's existence. She places both hands on her hips, posing in her usual impertinent demeanor. Layle notes that she has a piece of pamper crumpled up in her grasp, and considers at that moment piping up, but, frankly, _this is just too good._

Keiss coughs and rubs his eyes. "He might be _right there." _The Selkie gestures at the blond man sitting in plain sight, ever so casually smiling, legs folded, elbows on his knees, and his hands being used as a cushion for his face.


	6. knowing

A/N: Hey everybody. I think I'm going to scrap this fic. Don't worry, it'll still be around for you to look at all of its grammatical and logic errors, but I'll most likely be starting a new one under the same premesis; this time probably without older!Layle at all, and I won't be updating it any longer. As for why, the answer is easy: It's moving too quickly, it's poorly written, and it's (more or less) a logic fail. Anyway, as compensation, have a little bit of what I wrote for this planned chapter, and some snippets of the game, novelized. :{D happy reading

Layle pokes holes into the white sand with his fingers as they talk at him behind back, but it doesn't matter, because it's really all just in one ear and out the other. Somewhere along the way, he feels himself being tugged up onto his legs by his shoulder, but he quickly swats the hand away with a flick of his finger. Keiss staggers back, and Belle finally quiets herself, taking a step away from the Clavat, hands held near her chest. He stares at the two of them, and he already knows what they've been going on about—where have you been, what have you been doing, do you know how worried we were? Layle just shakes his head. Belle drags her eyes away from him and onto the ground, and Keiss clenches his teeth. "C'mon, Layle—"

"Keiss, don't," Belle murmurs as she pulls her hands from her chest and down to her hips.

"But, _Belle, _we've been looking all over and he's just being stupid—"

Layle knows what they both want to happen at this point. They want Layle to talk to Althea, be recognized as the hero he supposedly is, and they want everything to be _fine. _They want him to go back to doing run-of-the-mill jobs with Keiss, and they want him to just come back, like nothing's happened.

But Layle knows that he can't.

And he also knows how horridly melodramatic he's being—all this hub-bub with his emotional turbulence and 'troubled past'—what was he, an angst ridden teen? But no matter how hard he tried, going back to his old life of surveying air ships and picking wine grapes—it just didn't seem right. He needed to think things through, find out what he needed to do with his life but most importantly—

"He needs more time, Keiss."

Layle tunes back in to hear Belle's voice, softer than he's ever heard before. It sounds strangled, as if she's on the verge of crying, though Keiss looks more distressed than she does. Keiss has a hand on her shoulder, and Layle can tell he's trying to comfort her about the situation, but to little to no avail.

The blond bends down to reach for his jacket that's crumpled on the ground and Keiss looks over at him, a deep set frown on his tanned face. "Layle…" he begins, a reprimanding tone in his voice. The Selkie doesn't continue, though, and Layle just finishes the sentenced in his thoughts while he shrugs on the chain mail coat, looking rather ridiculous as the half of him is dressed in sandals and cargo shorts.

_Learn to be a team player._

"Layle, report in," came a young Selkie's voice, sounding exasperated and annoyed.

Layle, the Clavat in question, had been scratching away the hours on the side of the tiny escort craft—he was up to seven and a half hours in tally marks. Despite already knowing the answer, he rolled his head to the side and lazily casted his gaze over to the overpopulated cruise liner. The sky was darkened beneath his tinted goggles, and he could make out a hefty Lilty man jumping from the diving board.

"There's nothing here _to _report," the blond relaxed his neck, allowing his head to rest back on the seat. "All quiet out here, Keiss." Sighing, he felt his muscles ache for some sort of stimulation—a stretch would have to do, he thought mildly as he brought his arms above his head. "What a dull gig." The words came out sounding on the verge of whining.

Layle gripped the sides of the railing—he couldn't risk putting all the people down there in danger by jumping down and outright brawling with Jegran. His eyes darted left and right. He had to find a way for them to escape. As it was now, they were all at his mercy. The blond grit his teeth as he watched the sneering Lilty corner a pair of Selkie women. This next part came easy: throwing the nearest ladder down at the black clad man. It fell down with a clamor, and the Lilty looked up in his direction with a glare. Meanwhile, the two women managed to bolt to another corner of the holding chamber.

_Come on, come on, anything! _He spun around desperately, hearing the cry of yet another Selkie man—no doubt turned to crystal. Ladders—he'd used them all. Where was the debris? Something to throw down at Jegran; a rock, a monster, a pipe—pipe, pipe, oh thank god, there were _pipes_.

And there she was, still, without animation, and ruby red: nothing but a monument left to stand for eternity. Layle couldn't bring himself to move closer. His arm still ached from the amount of strenuous activity it'd been put through, and he himself was positively livid.

Hours, days, weeks, months. He couldn't tell how long he'd been traversing the Altifaria kingdom (or, in Belle's words, "moping around") for. In the time that he kept Jegran waiting, Layle had visited that lonely man beneath the winery well, watching as the other workers lowered food down to him. He'd visited that pretty girl and learned that one of the robins had taken a liking to the idea of his hair as a nest. He'd mastered chocobo racing, picked all the mushrooms in the moogle forest, and closed the miasma streams around the kingdom five times over each.


End file.
